


Freeze and Burn

by Alexanderthegreatestgay



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hero Complex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recovery, Self-Worth Issues, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexanderthegreatestgay/pseuds/Alexanderthegreatestgay
Summary: Curt has bad coping strategies and unresolved issues. Owen is desperate and running himself ragged. They love each other, but is it enough?





	

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing Owens perspective, cannot seem to get the voice right. i clearly enjoy suffering, which is why this idea came to me from a perfectly innocuous start. There is discussion of sensitive topics, so please be aware. i do not share any of the frankly alarming views expressed by these characters, and have no grasp of how medicine works, or what is and isnt typical in this part of history. bear with me

Curt is drunk and miserable. Which came first is a bit too chicken and egg for his liking, however. The bar has closed, it’s late, and he’s being forced to return to the hotel. The thought of having to face Owen like this fills him with dread. Though he doesn’t see Owen, he meets several looks of disgust or pity from hotel staff as he stumbles back to his room, feeding the self-loathing bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

He stands in the doorway for a while, leaning on the frame to muster his balance. The dark of his shadow looks ugly here, out of place in the of light from the hall.  He belongs in shadows and secrecy, in darkness. He’ll always be a man apart, always isolated, always lying. The deceit runs deep and thick in him, he can feel it, like treacle in his veins.

He steps into the room, leaving the fragile square of light unencumbered by his form. The shadows of the room know him, grin nastily at his return. He reaches under his bed. There is no room for shadows under here, only empty bottles, cold to the touch. But, there, to the left, is the sound of liquid sloshing as his fingers connect with a full one. The burn as he swallows feels like the first warmth he’s felt in years.

****

“Curt my boy, you have got to try the bacon they have here, it’s sodding amazing,” Owen calls from the hall. He pokes his head round the door. “Don’t try and tell me you’re still asleep, you lying bastard.”

Curt is on his bed, collapsed half propped up against the headboard. He isn’t moving.

“Curt?  Are you all right?” Owen edges closer to the bed, something nastily like fear mounting in his chest. He touches Curt gently, cupping his face.  “Curt…” he says warningly, and shakes his shoulder carefully. He hears the clink of glass as a bottle comes loose from Curt’s grip and rolls into the wall.

“Oh Curt, no…” Owen says, pain in his voice. He takes a deep breath and feels for a pulse. For a long moment he can’t find it, can only feel the cold of his skin, and it feels as though his own heart is doing double duty, banging against his ribs so hard he can’t think straight. “Come on, love,” he mutters desperately, “Come back to me.” Then he feels it, a tiny hitch beneath his fingers and he breathes again.

He calls Cynthia. He has to. He can’t take Curt into hospital, but the man needs urgent medical care.  And it’s his own stupid fault for pulling a stunt like this on a mission. Owen’s not about to let him die.

He refuses the back up the evac team offers, and finishes the rest of the mission alone. He gets shot for his troubles, but the bad guy goes down, and it only takes him two days before he’s back in the US.

Cynthia sends a car to pick him up at the airport. The man waiting for him holds a sign that reads ‘Rufus Lime’ in neat print, an alias Curt had picked out for him. When he gets in, the driver tells him blithely, “He’s awake, and asking for you.”

Owen immediately puts a knife to his throat. “Tell me who you are, and everything you know.”

The man squeaks and puts his hands up, “I don’t know nothing, the broad just said to tell you!”

Owen nods, and removes the knife, but doesn’t put it away. “Step on it,” he growls, and is instantly obeyed.

 

Curt is in the medical wing of the American Secret Service HQ. The decor is grim and functional. They don’t go much in for comfort here. Curt looks pale, thinner, and the dark bags under his eyes are prominent even through the glass window of his rooms door. Owen touches the glass briefly, then runs a hand through his hair and opens the door.

“Go away,” says Curt without looking up from the file he’s reading.

“I’ve come rather a long way for you to be childish about this, Curt.”

Curt sullenly doesn’t answer.

Owen sighs and walks over to pull up a seat by Curt’s bed.

“You’re limping,” says Curt.   

“You have alcohol poisoning,” retorts Owen.

Curt glares at him.  Owen sighs and rubs at his bullet wound.

“I got shot taking down Redfern. But you knew that.” He gestures at the file in Curt’s lap.  

“You should have had backup.”

“I should have had you.”

They lapse into angry silence for a beat.

 

“They said you were asking for me,” says Owen.

“That was before I knew it was you who dobbed me in.”

Owen explodes. “What the hell else was I supposed to do, Curt? You were unconscious! Did you want me to leave you to die?”

“Maybe you should have.”

Owen starts. He’d thought it had just been the latest in the long line of Curt’s reckless escapades gone wrong, the product of his longstanding flirtation with alcoholism. He hadn’t thought that it had been- But maybe he should have thought. The recklessness, the thrill-seeking, always pushing the limit. Maybe those had been signs, that he should have picked up on, should have noticed, should have been careful with how much weight Curt was carrying on his own, god knows with that messiah complex-

Curt puts the file down, but still doesn’t meet Owen’s eyes. “Cynthia came by today. She said I’ll be cleared for active duty on Monday.”

“The hell you will be,” starts Owen, his fear about Curt’s mental health taking back seat to the physical danger, “You’re in no condition to-”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Curt says bitterly. “Right after that, she fired me.”

There is a long silence.

Curt stares down at his balled hands, brow heavy with anger and frustration.

Owen’s chest aches. “Maybe a break would be good, Curt,” he says, clinging to false cheer. “We could go on that trip we always meant to-“

“You don’t get it, do you. If I can’t save people, then, then what is the point of me!” Curt slams his fist onto his leg, and Owen flinches.

“There’s something wrong in me, Owen. Something rotten in the core. And if I can’t do this, can’t make the world better, then I can’t-“ Curt screws his face up as if in pain, “justify my existence anymore!”

“Curt,” Owen says, feeling his world burning down around him. “Stop this. Please, just focus on getting better, we’ll sort this all out, I swear, just please- I can’t do this without you.”

Curt sags, like a puppet with its strings cut. “I’m sorry. Cynthia would have found out anyway. Its not fair to blame you for my mistake.”

“I’m sorry too, Curt. I should have known something was wrong, I should have been there for you.”

Curt shakes his head tiredly. “There was nothing you could have done.”

Owen takes his hand.

They each get the first sleep they’ve had in two days that night.


End file.
